


Ravenwood House

by SSock



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
Genre: Gen, People living in historical periods hopefully acting and thinking in historically appropriate ways, cameos from other Oliver Twist characters, some of which may be offensive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SSock/pseuds/SSock
Summary: John Childermass, having exhausted both his patience and all legal options for completing a particular task for Mr. Norrell, turns to less savory methods. Set approximately 1808.





	1. Chapter 1

In the early eighteenth century, in the countryside which has since been swallowed up by our ever-expanding London suburbs, there lived a man by the name of Tobias Ravenwood. This Mr. Ravenwood, despite the name, was no Northerner come down to the city, but, perhaps because of his name, he became one of the period's foremost collectors of books of magic and other magical items. When he died in 1730, his collection passed to his children, whose distaste for magic - which smacked too much of medieval superstition - was as great as his affinity for it, and by the time Gilbert Norrell came to London, it had passed out of the family (and in fact Mr. Norrell himself owned the greater part of it).

As often happens with such collections, which are so carefully amassed and then so easily broken up, a number of the items Mr. Ravenwood had listed in his inventory of 1721 were known to be missing. This was a constant source of anxiety to Mr. Norrell, that such things should be somewhere out in the world and he not know where. Other men might have assumed that what was gone was by now gone forever - the books used for kindling and the basins or chalices melted down for their metal, but Mr. Norrell, as the only practicing magician in England, had surer methods than assumption. In 1725, Tobias Ravenwood’s house had caught fire. The damage was minor and could have been easily repaired, but for reasons unknown, Mr. Ravenwood had chosen to leave the house as it was and build a new one elsewhere on the property, which his heirs continued to occupy at the period of our story. Perhaps he wished for his own Shadow House. Through the same spells he had used to search for Vinculus’s book - here employed with more success - Mr. Norrell discovered that, some time between the inventory of 1721 and Mr. Ravenwood’s death, Mr. Ravenwood had hidden certain items somewhere in his now-abandoned house, where they remained to this day.

Mr. Norrell sent Childermass to wait upon Mr. Ravenwood’s heirs. Mr. Ravenwood’s heirs, while not as opposed to magic as their parents - the stories of Mr. Norrell’s feats had affected even them - still found it faintly disreputable - a feeling perhaps reinforced by Childermass’s looks and manner - and furthermore found the idea that the old house could contain anything of value ridiculous, as their parents had stripped it of its contents upon Tobias Ravenwood’s death. They refused to let Childermass search the house. They refused to have it searched themselves. No amount of money could persuade them. The attentions of Mr. Drawlight and Mr. Lascelles were, if anything, less effective. Perhaps Sir Walter Pole could have persuaded them, but he had unfortunately discovered urgent government business which prevented him from becoming involved with this matter of Mr. Norrell’s.

Mr. Norrell took to his bed in vexation.

Childermass was ordered to find some way - any way - of persuading the present Ravenwoods to let him look at the old house.

The present Ravenwoods continued obstinate, and Childermass decided that, the present Ravenwoods being (somewhat willfully) ignorant of the contents of the old house and Mr. Norrell being (somewhat willfully) ignorant of how Mr. Childermass chose to conduct his business, what neither knew wouldn’t hurt them and he began to make his plans accordingly.

During the course of his prior investigation of Vinculus, he had gained some familiarity with the less reputable inhabitants of the city, and with some of them, a small measure of, if not precisely trust, then a lack of distrust. He set about cultivating this further, which consisted largely of supplying them with gin (or other spirits as desired). At the same time, he implied that he was looking for a man of wit and discretion for a particular - and particularly lucrative - sort of job. Perhaps they were themselves that sort of man - or knew of one who was. 

And eventually Mr. Childermass found a man who would admit that he _might_ know a man, who knew another man, who knew a third very discreet man, who thought he might know someone, who, for a consideration, would see if he could perhaps help Mr. Childermass out of his difficulty. And so John Childermass found himself one brisk March day down by the Thames, watching merchant ships unloading. He found the sight full of interest, not least because the helpful stranger he was engaged to meet was of a distinctly non-nautical character and would to Mr. Childermass’s understanding have been more at home among the old-clothes men by Tower Hill or Holywell Street.

As Childermass watched the ships and the men working on them, he became aware that amid the bustle there was one small spot of quiet and that spot was watching him. He pretended not to notice but marked from the corner of his eye a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen with red hair and sharp eyes staring at him curiously and carefully. Or not a boy, he realized, but a young man thin enough and small enough to be mistaken for a boy at a glance. He thought that if it wasn’t the man he had come to meet - and he wasn’t sure that it was - then it must be one of his creatures.

The young man watched Childermass pretending not to watch him for a time and then, as if he had no particular purpose in mind, found his way over to Childermass’s side.

“I think, Mr. Richards” - for that was the name Childermass had been using in this particular matter - “I think you are looking for a certain person,” he said in Childermass’s ear.

Childermass allowed that he might be.

“I think,” the young man said. “The certain person for whom you’re looking is _me_.”

Childermass turned and looked full at him. “I was expecting someone darker,” he said.

The young man looked back as if he was wondering if Childermass was being humorous. He decided he was not, and said, “As I have been - indisposed - these past months and unable to practice my usual profession, the need for a certain amount of anonymity has become less imperative and thus I have suffered nature to take its course.”

Childermass raised an eyebrow at him.

“The common man remembers red hair,” he said. “Not to mention the common Bow Street Runner. I used to dye it brown.” He added after a pause, “I trust you are not disappointed in my nose.”

Childermass decided the young man was being humorous, and probably at Childermass’s expense. He assured him, somewhat ironically, that he was not.

These pleasantries concluded, the young man seemed somewhat at a loss to continue. He looked up at the sky, looked back at Childermass, scratched his head, and said “Shall we walk, John Childermass?”

If Mr. Childermass was surprised at being addressed by his real name, he hid it well. The young man looked at him searchingly for a moment, as if he hoped Childermass would ask how he had discovered it, and when he was disappointed in that, continued anyway, “You see, Mr. Childermass, while you were trying to find me, I was trying to discover who _you_ were. It’s not a usual thing - not at all - for a man we knew so little of to be asking around for help with such a particular sort of job. It worried me a little, my dear. I feared your motive. And therefore I investigated.”

Childermass said, “And were you satisfied with your discoveries?” He added as an afterthought, “Isaac Fagin - if that is your real name.”

“Mostly,” the young man said. “Mostly. And yes, my dear, I’m afraid it is.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fagin led Mr. Childermass through the streets, displaying a decided preference for back alleys, until they came to a particularly dirty public-house in a particularly dirty part of Little Saffron Hill. He opened the door and stood back with a mocking half-bow. Childermass stepped inside, and as he did so, a small child brushed past him. It was only the lightest, fleetingest touch, and most men would have thought nothing of it, but it made Childermass spin around and catch the child by the back of the collar. “I believe you have something of mine,” he said.

The child looked up at him, an unconvincing picture of innocent bewilderment. 

“Barney,” said Fagin from behind them. “The gentleman is a friend of ours.” Barney looked at Fagin and then back at Childermass skeptically. “Barney,” Fagin said again, warningly.

Barney pulled Childermass’s handkerchief from his pocket and dangled it toward him. Childermass replaced it, paused thoughtfully for a moment, and said, “And four shillings, two pennies, and a five pound note?” Barney looked at Fagin. Fagin raised his eyebrows in response. Barney sighed and dug in his pocket again.

“Now run along and play,” Fagin said, and stood back to let the child pass. Barney edged by him, not quite far enough away to keep Fagin from reaching out and smacking him across the back of the head. “That’s for getting caught, my dear,” Fagin said. Barney gave both of them an affronted look and stalked off with great dignity.

They watched him go. “I think we’ll have to remember not to bother _you_ in the future, Mr. Childermass,” Fagin said. “It’s an uncommon man that can catch Barney. I’d have hit him harder if it wasn’t.” He nodded to the man behind the bar and led Childermass into a small dark back parlor. “Now,” he said, shutting the door. “I think we may safely discuss business.”

Childermass set before him the same story that we have related previously - of Mr. Ravenwood’s collection and his recalcitrant heirs and Mr. Norrell’s frustrations. Fagin chewed on a fingernail thoughtfully. Childermass noticed that the hand he brought to his mouth - it was his right - moved as if it were three times as old as the rest of him. “It’s a bit irregular - isn’t it now - and magic, Mr. Childermass,” Fagin said. “I don’t know that I like the thought of magic. Magic treasure always has some sort of other magic guarding it in the stories, doesn’t it, my dear? And I’m not the dragon-fighting sort.”

“No,” agreed Childermass. “You’re only a pickpocket. And not much of one anymore, I see.”

Fagin took his hand from his mouth and laid it on the table. “Just a little quarrel between friends,” he said softly, staring at it. “That’s all. Just a little quarrel.”

Childermass could imagine how it had gone. “Ravenwood was a scholar of magic, not a magician himself,” he said, returning to the current business. “He would not have known how to create any magical wards. And I will be coming with you. You may leave any magic to me.” Fagin looked as if he didn’t know whether to be pleased or otherwise at this news.

“Ah - well, of course it isn’t my decision alone, my dear,” he said. “I should have to ask my partner, and he might not like it - a stranger coming along. And then if you should decide to cheat us, well, what could a pair of poor creatures like us do against all the magic in England?”

“You’ll have to risk it,” said Childermass unsympathetically.

Fagin looked at him sharply. “I wonder you don’t do it alone,” he said. “You have the experience, haven’t you?”

“No,” said Childermass. “I’m afraid burglary is not one of my talents.”

Fagin was about to reply - perhaps to argue, since he had drawn certain conclusions about Childermass’s history which, while not entirely accurate, were not far off from the truth, but whatever he might have said was cut off by the entrance of an unexpected third party (followed immediately by a fourth). The newcomer was taller than Childermass and nearly twice as wide, and if any man looked fitted for a prison cell, it was him. He was accompanied by a boy who was a miniature version of himself, but dark-haired where he was blond.

Fagin acquired a hunted look. “Hello, Tom. Bill,” he said, with an attempt at friendliness.

“You owe me money, Ikey,” Tom said, looming over him.

“I don’t think I do, Tom,” Fagin said cautiously.

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Tom replied. “Because I’ve been hearing some things -”

Fagin shot a glance at Childermass, who had shifted his chair back slightly out of the light, where the newcomer hadn’t noticed him. “Tom -” he said.

Tom ignored him. “-About that job we did last month at-”

“Tom!” Fagin said again, louder. “This is the gentleman I was telling you about -”

Tom shut his mouth and looked at Childermass. Childermass looked back, unimpressed. Tom returned to the known quantity (and the easier target). 

“You owe me money, Ikey, and I want it.”

Fagin looked helplessly at Childermass, though not really expecting anything from that quarter, and said, “All right, Tom, all right. But I haven’t got a thing on me at the moment. Tonight, my dear. We’ll talk tonight.” He paused, and then added (obviously hoping the answer would be no), “You wouldn’t like to stay, would you, Tom, and talk business? We’d need you on the job, too, I think.”

To Fagin’s evident relief, Tom announced that he had better things to do, and that he relied upon Fagin to give him a full and correct accounting of the meeting with Childermass alongside a full and correct accounting of the money he claimed Fagin owed him - that is, he reminded Fagin of unspecified consequences that had happened on a previous occasion where Fagin had attempted to cheat him, and then took his leave of both of them, though not before adding, somewhat incongruously (and to Childermass’s silent amusement), “And stay away from my sister.” The child Bill, who Childermass assumed was Tom’s son, favored them both with as surly a look as his father could have managed and followed him out.

Fagin said to the closing door, though not loud enough that anyone but Childermass might have heard, “I haven’t been near her in months.”

“And did you cheat him?” Childermass said.

“I didn’t when he broke my hand, but he thought I did,” Fagin said, and then said to the table, “And you think I do now, so what does it matter if I do or don’t?”

Childermass shrugged. Fagin stared unhappily before him for a little longer, and then, with an air of shaking off some unpleasant thought, said, “I suppose you’ll want to keep whatever we might find in the house.”

“Yes,” said Childermass, a little startled by the shift. “There’s not likely to be much left there of value other than what we’re looking for.”

“Because, you see, there’s the question of payment,” Fagin said. He looked at Childermass for a long moment and added, “Give me a spell to kill a man and I’ll take it as my share and not ask more.”

Of all the spells that Fagin might have asked for, this was one of several that Childermass would have found unsurprising even without knowing him, but something about the badly healed hand and the feeling that Fagin was being unexpectedly forthright lessened his contempt and he replied with something that was not quite pity, “A spell you couldn’t use?”

“I would learn.”

“No,” said Childermass. “Find some other way, if you want him dead. Turn King’s evidence if you must,” he added, with a shade of distaste.

“No other way would be so safe.”

“You haven’t any morals, have you?” Childermass said.

Fagin smiled at him gently. “Can’t afford them, my dear. Surely it’s not been so long that you’ve forgotten - or perhaps it’s different up north.”

“We, at least, had some honor even among thieves,” Childermass said.

“You must have been very young to think so.”

Childermass looked at him sourly. “Even if there was such a spell and it was known to me, do you think I would let just anyone have it, and for what is in truth a very minor matter? You will be paid, and paid well and you cannot make me believe that _you_ would not like money just as well.” He had the impression of a door being shut.

“Yes,” said Fagin after a moment. “Yes. Of course. I would like money just as well. I had forgotten. How much did you propose to pay us?”

Childermass named a sum, which, while generous, was intended merely as an opening and significantly less than he expected or was willing to pay. Strangely, however, Fagin did not seem inclined to haggle and accepted the offer in what Childermass thought was a surprisingly uninterested manner.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Childermass,” he said, distractedly. “I have other business I must attend to -”

Childermass took the hint (albeit with mild irritation) and suggested that they continue negotiations some other day. Fagin agreed, with somewhat more enthusiasm than he had shown on the subject of payment, and then inquired apathetically if Mr. Childermass was able to find his own way out. He assured him that he was, and, when Fagin displayed no inclination to prolong the farewell, left him seated at the table. He returned to Hanover Square, unsure as to whether things were moving along as he liked.

Fagin, finding himself alone in the little back parlor, did not immediately hurry off on the urgent business he had claimed to Childermass, but rested his head on his folded arms with a troubled look that indicated a sensitivity of temperament which the popular writers of the day would have sooner ascribed to an orphan boy whose hidden gentle birth manifested itself in an instinctive distaste for the immorality of his surroundings than to a little London Jew who schemed and stole as well as the rest of his companions and whose antecedents were no more romantic than the others’ of his people whose fathers had found their way, penniless, from Germany or perhaps Poland. But Nature dispenses these things less carefully than novelists, and so Fagin was unsuited by temperament to his station in life and unsuited by training as well as temperament to any other, and as the years passed he became increasingly lonely and increasingly inclined to consider what others might think a gift to be a worse than useless thing to have, and unconsciously he started to become what the others around him expected him to be. Though even now, at the relatively advanced age of twenty-four, the world had not yet worn on him enough for his intelligence to turn to cunning and his depth of feeling to a tendency toward hysteria. And there were still pieces of him that were soft enough to be hurt by Childermass’s obvious, careless distaste for him when he had thought that he had seen in Childermass a mind that came closer to matching his own than any he had met before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little worried that I had gotten up on a bit of a soapbox at the end, and then I remembered I was writing a crossover between a 19th century pastiche and a 19th century novel, and soapboxes were perfectly appropriate.
> 
> The next chapter may be entirely self-indulgent hurt-comfort, in which case the rating will probably go up for violence.


End file.
